Hometown Heroes

by Joe Gribble

and his pitcher.

  Aja grabs Bob's arm, helps him back to his feet. “You okay, Coach?”

  Bob regains his footing. “Yeah...I'm all right.” Bob looks down at his missing arm. “I used to be able to take guys like that down... no problem.”

  Aja picks up the purse. They both head out of the alley.

  “Don’t worry, Coach. I've got your back.”

  They make their way back to the game. Aja returns the purse to the woman it was stolen from.

  Bob checks the scoreboard. While they were gone, the Bandits scored another win.

  ---

  Baseball Field, Wright Patterson Air Force Base

  Bob pulls into the empty parking lot. He looks out onto the baseball field, the field he used to love so much. Does he still love it? The last time he was here he tried to throw a ball over the plate, and he couldn’t even come close. That had been a real downer for someone who used to routinely throw ninety-eight-mile-per-hour strikes.

  Bob climbs out and pulls a large duffel bag out of the bed of his truck. He slings it over his shoulder and heads directly for the mound.

  Bob puts the bag on the ground and pulls out a baseball. He digs his foot into the rubber, winds up, and fires. The ball goes wide.

  He reaches down for the bag and empties it. Baseballs fall all over the ground. He picks up another ball and gets into his stance. He throws again. Way too high.

  He throws pitch after pitch after pitch, focusing on fastballs, trying desperately to get the ball over the plate at a respectable speed.

  An hour later, Bob is drenched in sweat. Most of the baseballs litter the area around home plate. He picks up the last ball near the mound and throws.

  Not hard, but the ball passes nearly into the strike zone. A smile begins to cross his face.

  He takes the bag and begins gathering the baseballs, putting them back in the duffel. Once done, he starts back toward the gate, but stops. He looks back at the mound. “What the hell,” he says as he walks back to the rubber and dumps the balls on the ground once again.

  ---

  Bob’s Apartment

  The small table in the dining area is neatly arranged with two place settings on either side of a small bouquet of flowers in the center of the table.

  The TV is on in the background. Baseball, of course. Cincinnati Reds against the Mets.

  Smoke wafts in from the open door that leads to a small patio. Bob comes out of the kitchen and steps out through the sliding glass door. He lifts the lid to the grill. Two steaks sizzle over the flame. He flips the steaks and adds a little seasoning.

  Bob closes the lid and steps back inside the apartment when he hears an interruption on the TV.

  The announcer comes on, grim faced. “We interrupt the game with a special news bulletin. We just received a tape from Greg Irvin, our embedded reporter who has spent a year with an Army unit fighting in one of the most violent places in Afghanistan. Greg has routinely sent his ‘Notes From the Front’ news stories to keep the American people informed of the challenges still facing our armed forces overseas. We have flagged this story as urgent, and I think you’ll see why.“

  Bob grabs his beer from the table, his eyes glued to the TV. It’s very unusual for the network to interrupt a game, or any show for that matter, for a story on Afghanistan.

  The announcer continues, “During a recent attack, Greg caught the scene on film. I must caution our audience that this report is very graphic.”

  A grainy shot of the inside of a military vehicle replaces the reporter’s image. The camera pans to outside the window where a line of half a dozen military trucks moves ahead, driving up a dusty road. Without warning, the third vehicle in line erupts in flame.

  Bob drops his beer, ignoring it as he moves closer to the TV. He watches as the trucks move quickly to form a perimeter around the burning vehicle. Bob knows the drill well.

  The image bounces erratically as the reporter jumps out with his camera, moving toward the burning vehicle. The ground in front of him puffs up twice. The image flips upward, pointing at nothing but blue sky. Then the image bounces, focused on the burning vehicles ahead. It doesn’t move again.

  Bob plops down on the couch, takes a bottle of whiskey off the end table and twists off the top. He takes a long slug.

  The TV announcer chokes on his next words. “Our intrepid reporter, Mr. Greg Irvin, was killed in the attack. This is his final report from the war.“

  ---

  Julie stands outside Bob’s apartment. She arranges her blouse and slacks and pushes a lock of hair back out of her face. Satisfied, she knocks on the door.

  She waits for a few seconds, but there’s no answer. She knocks again. Still nothing. She checks her watch. She’s on time. She shouts through the door, “Bob? Bob, are you home?”

  No answer. Julie twists the door knob. The door opens a crack. Julie calls through the crack, “Bob? Bob?” Still no answer.

  She opens the door wider and smoke assaults her. She squints, sees Bob sitting on the couch. “Bob!”

  As she swings the door open, she sees a thick fog of smoke billowing in from the porch. Julie rushes into the apartment and out through the sliding glass door. The smoke is coming from the grill, and she flings it open. She jumps back as flames leap out.

  Reaching carefully below the grill, she turns off the gas, then grabs the cup of water sitting on the grill shelf and douses the flames. The steaks are toast.

  She rushes back inside and over to Bob. “Bob, what's going on?”

  Bob raises his whiskey bottle, nearly empty, toward the TV. “They did it again... the bastards did it again.”

  “What?” Julie asks.

  “Damn ragheads. They're still killing the guys.” A tear runs down Bob’s cheek.

  Julie glances at the TV. A baseball game is on.

  Bob takes another long slug from the whiskey bottle. “It's never going to stop.”

  Julie sits down beside him. “It'll stop, Bob. It's got to stop.”

  She flips to a channel with music, waits a few minutes, and then says quietly, “I think you should get some help, Bob. The booze won’t do it. Believe me, I’ve been there. I went through this with my dad.”

  “I don’t know,” Bob says.

  “You want me to just hang out here for a while?” Julie asks.

  Bob doesn't say anything.

  Julie kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up on the coffee table. She looks over at him, then takes the whiskey bottle and puts it out of his reach. She takes his hand in hers and moves closer to him. “I'm here for you, Bob, but promise me you’ll get some help.”

  ---

  Badgers Baseball Field

  Two Air Force passenger vans, customary blue color, pull to a stop in the gravel parking lot next to a well-groomed baseball field. Major Kepler drives one, Bob the other.

  The Bandits climb out.

  “Where the hell are we, Coach? “ JJ asks.

  “Middle of frickin’ nowhere,” Shinji says before Bob gets a chance.

  “Nice ball field, though,” Q says.

  There are dugouts, a concession stand, even an electronic scoreboard. Bob leads the Bandits to the visitors' dugout.

  Bob addresses the team once they’re settled into the dugout. “Don't take these guys for granted. This may be a podunk little town, but from the looks of this field, these folks take their ball seriously.”

  “No problem, Coach,” JJ says.

  “These country towns can have strong teams,” Bob says. “Let's just get out there and show 'em how to play ball.”

  The Bandits all step out of the dugout, gathering just outside the entrance. They look across the field at the Badgers' dugout. The Badgers are older; several appear to be in their mid-thirties. The Bandits are heading out to the field to warm up when one of the Badgers, a short, stocky guy with tattoos all over his arms, sees them staring in his direction. He doesn’t hesitate and flips them his middle finger.

  Bob sees the jerk, and
notices JJ and Shinji are about to return the gesture.

  “Hey,” Bob says.

  Shinji and JJ both look his way.

  “Ignore him,” Bob says.

  “Right, Coach,” JJ says.

  “All hands in,” Bob says.

  The Bandits form a circle, piling their hands, one on top of the other, in the center.

  In unison, they shout, “Bandits... Bandits... Bandits!” They break their chant with high fives and pats on the back.

  Bob picks up his clipboard and checks the roster. “Q, you're up first.... JJ's on deck.”

  Q and JJ each grab a bat and start swinging to loosen up. Bob grabs a helmet and heads for first base to coach. Ramiro heads to third. The rest of the team piles back into the dugout, shouting encouragement to Q as he steps into the batter’s box.

  No luck for the Bandits in their first at-bat against the Badgers. The Bandits go without a score through the top of the first inning as the Badgers' pitcher takes control. He allows a couple of hits and even walks one Bandit, but three strikeouts and the inning is quickly half over. As the game rolls into the bottom of the first inning, the Bandits grab their gloves and get ready to play defense.

  Bob comes trotting back from first base. “Some nice hits, they’re a good ball team. But now it's our turn to show 'em how to play ball.”

  The Bandits head out to the field. JJ waits for instructions from his coach.

  Bob looks at Aja. “You ready?”

  Aja nods. “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Bob tells him. “Nothing fancy. Just fastballs. Show 'em what you're made of.”

  “Right, Coach, “Aja says. He grabs his glove and heads for the mound.

  “All right,” JJ says, slapping Aja on the butt as their new pitcher heads out to make his debut.

  “Okay, JJ,” Bob says. “Take first. Send Shinji to right field. Have Mayday come back in.”

  “Will do, Coach.” JJ heads for first base, yelling at the rest of the team, “Aja is pitching!”

  Aja walks out to the pitcher’s mound. The Bandits see the change-up and all yell in approval.

  Bob turns to Major Kepler, standing with him in front of the dugout. “Watch this kid throw. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Better than you?” Kepler asks.

  “You mean better than I was, before I lost the arm?” Bob watches Aja fire a practice pitch. “Yeah…. I think so.”

  Kepler watches Aja throw. “Wow. He’s got some speed on that thing. Ugly windup, though.”

  The umpire walks out to home plate. “Let’s go!” He dusts off the plate and moves into position behind Ramiro.

  The first Badgers batter, a short, stocky player, steps up to the batter's box. He's wearing a short-sleeved jersey, sporting big tattoos on his bulging biceps. SMITH is stenciled on the back of his shirt.

  He looks at Aja, down at Ramiro, then back at Aja. He taps the bat on his shoe, and then checks out the rest of the Bandits team. He steps into the batter’s box and taps his bat on home plate. He smirks as he glances back at Ramiro. “What the hell is this, some kind of foreign league?”

  Ramiro ignores the comment, smacks his fist into his catcher's mitt and twists his feet into the dirt as he settles into his squat.

  The umpire leans down behind Ramiro. “Play ball.”

  Aja watches as Ramiro signals for a fastball. Aja nods, then steps onto the rubber. He gyrates through his strange windup and launches a meteor.

  Smith lets the first one go by. He steps back out of the box and taps the bat on his shoe again. He addresses Ramiro, but loud enough for the entire infield to hear, “Whoa... that raghead has an arm, don't he?”

  Smith steps back into the batter's box. He taps the bat on the plate, and then loads it up over his shoulder.

  He yells to Aja, “Bring that one again, ya' little raghead. I'll show ya’ how I hit them things.”

  Aja winds up, fires another one.

  Smith swings hard at the fireball that screams over the plate, but misses.

  “Striiike!”

  Smith slams his bat onto the ground. His face glows red as he backs out of the box and kicks the dirt with his foot. He finally calms down and steps back into the box. He yells at Aja, “What the hell kinda’ windup is that? You havin’ some kind of spaz attack or something?”

  Smith gets serious. He spits into his gloved palms and twists his hands tight around the bat handle. He quickly pops the bat up over his shoulder. “Bring it again, boy,” Smith yells to Aja.

  Aja winds up and gyrates again, launching another rocket.

  Smith swings and connects. Crack!

  Shinji backs up in right field, farther, farther, until he finally turns and runs to chase the ball as it flies over his head.

  Smith turns at first—at the base coach’s orders—and continues his sprint toward second base.

  Shinji chases the ball down quickly. He snaps it up, turns, and throws all the way into second base.

  The race is going to be close. Smith turns and pushes his feet in front as he begins his slide.

  Pauli stands with his left foot on the bag and reaches to his left to snag Shinji’s throw. Once he has the ball, Pauli makes a sweeping turn and reaches down with his glove to tag Smith.

  The race is close, but the base umpire calls Smith safe.

  Smith stands and dusts himself off. “Hot damn,” he says to Pauli. “Almost had the fence with that one. I will next time, you watch.”

  The next batter, Williams, steps into the batter's box.

  Smith claps his hands, takes a lead off second. “Okay, Williams. Let's show 'em how American baseball is played.”

  Aja gets ready to start his windup.

  “Hey,” Smith shouts from near second base, trying to disturb Aja. “You boys did know this was an American sport, didn't ya? Any of y'all American?”

  Aja isn’t fazed. He fires a fastball as Smith takes a few more tentative steps toward third.

  Williams lets the speedball go by.

  “Strike one!”

  Smith steps slowly back toward second, shouts to Aja, “Hey, raghead. Think you can throw me out?”

  Aja keeps his eye on Smith, stepping farther and farther toward third. Aja isn’t ruffled, though, as he winds up and fires another fastball.

  Williams swings, but gets nothing but air.

  Ramiro catches the burner and quickly stands, stepping around the batter and threatening to throw to second.

  “Strike two!”

  Smith takes a couple of steps back toward second, but stops short. He looks directly at Ramiro, clapping his hands together… taunting him.

  Ramiro doesn’t take the bait either, and throws the ball back to Aja.

  Aja stares hard at Smith. If Smith hopes to rattle Aja he isn’t doing it. Aja remains calm and collected. When Smith finally moves back to stand on second, only then does Aja touch the rubber with his foot and turn his focus to the batter.

  As soon as Aja turns to the batter, though, Smith takes an even longer lead off second. “Come on, raghead. Think ya can throw me out?”

  Aja glances at him, but then winds up and throws a smoker at home plate.

  Williams swings at air again.

  “Strike three! You’re out!”

  Smith steps back to second base while the batters switch out. He continues to harass Aja. “That’s nothing, raghead. Williams is our worst batter, anyway. But here comes Detmer. He's gonna hammer you, boy!”

  Detmer, a big man with the muscles of a body builder, steps into the box.

  Smith shouts from second, “Detmer, blast this raghead. Bring me home.” Smith takes another long lead off second base and starts harassing Aja again. “Detmer likes them fastballs. Likes to hammer ‘em all the way over the fence. Go ahead and throw him one, raghead.”

  Aja keeps one eye on Smith as he sizes up the new batter.

  Smith takes an extra step toward third. “Come on, raghead. You know you wanna try.”

  Aja pulls t
he ball to his chest. He stares hard at the batter, and then glances back at Smith. Aja takes a chance and fires the ball at Pauli on second. The angry throw goes wide and Pauli misses it.

  Smith starts back to second, but when Pauli misses the throw, he scrambles back the other way—makes it cleanly to third.

  The third base coach urges him on to home.

  Smith turns the corner and glances back to see where the ball is. The fielder hasn’t quite caught up to it, so Smith accelerates toward home plate.

  Rocket, in left field, races to recover the overthrown ball. He reaches it just as Smith turns the corner at third and heads for home.

  Ramiro stands his ground on the third base side of home plate. The throw from Pauli is accurate and takes a single bounce right into Ramiro's glove. Ramiro turns to face Smith, just as Smith starts into his slide.

  Smith alters his slide, digs his foot into the dirt and comes erect, slamming into Ramiro full-force. Smith’s momentum throws Ramiro backward, landing him flat onto his back. The ball goes flying.

  Smith stomps on the plate with both feet.

  “Safe!” the umpire calls.

  Smith walks over to Ramiro, still lying flat on his back, sucking for air. Smith leans over to get into Ramiro's face, waves his finger at him. “Next time you best stay outta my way, Mescan.”

  Bob rushes out of the dugout toward home plate, his face red with anger. “What the hell, Ump? Are you going to let him get away with that?”

  The umpire turns to face Bob as Aja helps Ramiro to his feet. “No foul,” the umpire says to Bob. “Catcher was in the base path.”

  Smith turns when he hears Bob arguing with the ump. “What are you...” Smith points at Bob's missing arm. “What is this? You're the coach?”

  Smith laughs, turns, and hollers toward his dugout where his team is starting to file out. “Look at this, guys. Single-wing here is the coach.”

  Bob heads toward Smith, but Ramiro steps between them.

  “It's okay, Coach,” Ramiro says. “Just turn your back on him and walk away. We're in Redneckville, just have to expect this.”

  “Bunch of idiots,” Bob says.

  “You get used to it, Coach,” Ramiro says as he follows Bob back toward the dugout.

  “Let's play ball,” the umpire calls.

  Bob continues on to his dugout, fuming, face red. He turns back to face the team out in the field. “Just ignore the jerks; let's take the game to them.” Bob stops and stands in the entrance to the dugout. “Let's go.”

  The game continues to be tough. By the bottom of the second inning, the Badgers are leading by three. Bandits zero. Smith continues to be the jerk, constantly taunting Aja and the rest of the team with insulting slurs and demeaning comments about their differing heritages.

  Aja continues to throw fastballs with an arm that never seems to tire. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know how to throw anything else.

  Ramiro hits well against the Badgers’ pitcher, with one homer and a couple of deep center hits that allow a few runs to score.

  In the end, though, the Bandits can’t pull it off. The final score is Bandits four, Badgers eight.

  ---

  Back in the dugout, the Bandits gather their equipment for the ride home. Bob can tell they’re all depressed about the loss. Bob knows he hasn’t helped. Losing his cool after Smith knocked Ramiro down wasn’t a good thing to do in front of these young men.

  “Hold up, guys.” Bob stands in the dugout exit, blocking anyone from leaving. “I want to apologize for my attitude and actions on the field today. It was inappropriate and wrong.”

  The team